


You Better Atone For Your Sins

by BehindTheCellarDoor



Category: Benjaminutes - Fandom, Silent Hill (Video Game Series), The Riftdale Chronicles (Web Series)
Genre: Bart needs a break, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Christian being himself, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, Not Happy, Not a Love Story, References to Depression, Silent Hill References, pre "to kill"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 01:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16186910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BehindTheCellarDoor/pseuds/BehindTheCellarDoor
Summary: After driving their car off a cliff during a chase, Christian finds himself bloodied and missing one hostage and a big bag of money. In his search for Bart and the cash he finds some things he wished had remained under the shadows. To get things back sometimes you have to return what you have taken... or in give something in exchange for it.





	You Better Atone For Your Sins

**Author's Note:**

> The SILENT HILL crossover/AU that no one asked for but that I am writing either way.   
> More characters will appear as they are needed in this "make the trashman pay" fic. Everyone's backstory is free-real-state thanks to canon, but that being said this is not a redemption fic nor it justifies Christian's actions... one day I will finish that damn essay about him.   
> This happens before "To Kill". All of them meeting during the Sitcom arc is dutifully ignored for literary purposes.   
> Yes, Silent Hill type monsters will be featured. Yes, *that one* too.

         The car swiveled as they took a sharp turn a little too fast in their attempt to lose the police cars blasting the sirens behind them. The red and blue lights reflected on the rear view mirror and cast a baleful shadow on the priest’s face, his scowl bordering on murderous —which to be fair wasn’t much distanced from what he usually did. The cops had chased them out of town and into the high speed road that ran down the mountain in a spiral, the possibility of making their escape perhaps still at arms-reach if only he could make the stupid car go faster.   
A man of small frame cowered in the passenger seat, making himself look more little than it was even possible, clutching a canvas duffel bag close to his chest like his life depended on it. His life did depend on securing the money inside of it, his job as a hostage slash partner was as simple and as complicated as it sounded. Get in, scout the place without giving anything away, and calm the patrons as the other man conducted his business. Once in a while he was reminded that he was still a hostage despite the kind treatment —if one could call that kind— that consisted of occasional unsupervised visits to bars or the steady flow of art supplies that for reasons unknown he was provided. He was reminded he was a hostage and not a friend in a wild vacation, when he got too jolly and asked his captor personal questions or shared his own dreams and insecurities. He was reminded he was a hostage because when he tried to get closer Christian would pull out his gun and pointedly tell him to shut the fuck up.   
Still he clung on to the bag as tight as he clung to the conviction that they were actually friends and he would see peaceful days again, when all he had to worry about was… well, everything except going to jail.   
  
Christian’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. He gritted his teeth, mumbling under his breath. There were many things wrong with him, a known fact to anyone who knew him, neither was his trigger-happy finger a secret. He was not an easy to scare man but his ability to control anger was more like a concept than something that actually existed inside of himself.   
He cussed, his mind focused on keeping the gas pedal down and the cop car far. A grey haze of fog was coming down around them, the lights coloring the ground-bound sky behind them fading slow.   
  
“For fuck’s sake! You had one fucking job, Bart. One job,” Christian yelled, his eyes darting from the mirror to the road.   
  
“I am sorry…” the small man replied.   
  
The fog got thicker by the minute, the car was swimming around fallen clouds, the sound of the police unit had faded to nothingness and there was no trail of the colored lights. The Priest in his blind rage didn’t register any of that, there was only one thing to think about: how close they had been to actually getting caught and all because one man couldn’t do a simple task. All the money they could have taken instead of what in a hurry they’d manage to fit into the canvas bag.   
  
“I don’t give a single fuck if you are sorry or not. Next time, if there even is a next one, I am going to shoot you in the fucking leg if you pull another stunt, you hear me?!” The Priest said reaching with one hand into his shirt pocket to do a bump of coke as he drove. His eyes fluttered close as he rode the hit of the high, everything became so crisp and manageable for a minute or two when he was on the sugar. It was only temporary, of course, it had never been a real solution to anything in his life, neither had been faith. Now he just held to the vestiges of the days he believed in something greater than himself and that maybe he could change and forget the mistakes he had made, he held to the drugs that kept his head just above the water, forever chasing that next high that could finish things off. Perhaps Christian still believed in something greater than himself; drugs and death. His dirty priest get-up more of a crude reminder to himself whenever he was off camera.   
  
“Christian…”  
  
He scowled and opened his eyes to glare at the man in the passenger seat, the heavy combat boots weighting over the gas pedal like a curse.  
  
“What?! What is it now?! Are you gonna-” he started before a panicked voice interrupted him and pointed to the windshield.   
  
“Christian!”  
  
He turned to look at the road a split second too late. He turned the wheel with both hands as fast as he could, trying to take the curve, a futile attempt. The car missed the road violently and tumbled down the rocky steep hill, reaching the bottom with a loud crash and a tower of smoke slowly forming. Then there was just silence with the occasional sizzle of fire.    
  
  
*****  
  
  
Christian had passed out after his head bounced from the steering wheel and onto the hard side of the door. He woke up in a fit of cough, his face caked in soot and blood from a busted eyebrow and lip. He stumbled out of the car in a daze with a ringing in his ears. The world seemed blurry, faded, out of focus, and it took him a moment to understand what had happened. He walked to the other side tripping over his own feet and calling for his copilot and hostage. He yanked open the passenger’s to see no one there. No blood or trace, the seat belt still fastened over nothing as if Bart had never been in the car at all, but more important: the bag with the money was gone too.   
  
“Bart!” He screamed as he made his way towards what must have been North, putting distance between him and the wreck; it was a stolen car, he couldn’t care less. The money, though, the money was priority number one. Finding Bart was just a bonus, he was going to make sure he lost a couple of teeth for daring to take off with the dough; not a good time to grow a spine.   
  
After a mere fifteen minutes of walking he reached a road that definitely didn’t look like the one he had been driving on, then again he was high and not actually paying a lot of attention to it. The fog was thick and he had a hard time seeing past a couple of meters ahead. It was summer, it had no place of being there and for some reason the hair of his arms stood up in attention, a jolt of cold ran down his back in one large tremor. _Fuck this place. Fuck Bart. Fuck everything._ His feet hurt. Was he even walking in the right direction? He might have been walking towards another cliff or an abandoned dead field, Bart might have ran the opposite way but then again he would be able to find him, it couldn’t be that hard. A guy like Bart didn’t last long on the road by himself. Maybe if Christian fired at the sky the sound would make Bart collapse and it would be just a matter of time before he stumbled across the fainted man. He reached for his gun, tucked safely on the back of his pants, but it wasn’t there.   
  
“God fucking damn it two fucking times to hell,” he half-yelled half-muttered looking around for the invisible hand that had stolen his revolver too. Naturally there was no one there and he cursed again through gritted teeth. In his pocket he found the baggie of coke still nestled waiting for him. Christian sighed in relief and thanked the drug lord for saving that from the wreck. He scooped some of the white powder with the longer fingernail on his pinkie; a coke nail, very useful if you are a high maintenance addict on the run and can’t just stop to cut a line and do a bump. Buy now. Pretend Happiness in a bag.  
  
He kept walking just out of spite, now and again calling out for the man in an increasingly tired yet angrier voice. Time was a faraway concept, he could make way across the unrelenting fog without really paying any notice, tripping every couple steps. His white hair stained red from where it had made contact with his face, the blood was drying where The Priest had ran his fingers through in both frustration and to keep it out of his eyes. As he moved with his mind half absent and his face scrunched up, his foot connected with something hard and taller than a simple block, almost toppling over himself. Christian looked down to find a couple concrete dividers blocking the road. He had to do a double take and squint. This was not a trick of the cocaine, coke didn’t do this to you and he would sure know. Despite all that, the fact remained irrefutable: there was no road ahead. It didn’t turn into dirt, it didn’t end at a property or a field… there was simply no road ahead. There was nothing ahead, an absolute nothingness as if a giant mouth had taken a bite out of the earth and left. All he could see was the chasm that started a couple feet behind the dividers, and no sign of the presumed continuation of land.   
_What the fuck…_  
  
Tracing his steps back to the wreck he quickly arrived at the entrance of a town, one that he was absolutely sure wasn’t there when he walked towards the dead road. He had just turned around on his heels and walked for a couple of minutes, he would have seen this on his first trip, right? And still, the town sign and small buildings were waiting, who knew how many miles from the wreck. Christian didn’t recognize the name of the place, never heard of it, never seen it on a map, didn’t even care to try and memorize it. What he did recognize was the small object on the ground bellow the town sign, catching the light and beckoning him. His silver revolver. The one with the engravings all over the muzzle… definitely his and definitely not where it was supposed to be at all.   
“Bart, I am gonna fucking kill you…” _You want to play games now?_  
  
With the gun safely tucked in his pants again he began walking into the unfamiliar street. It was oddly silent, no cars or people going around, no music or yelling, nothing but the fog and the cold and a lingering dread every step he took. He spotted a bar not far from the entrance and claimed it as his first stop. Christian seemed to be the only patron, the place looked like people had just decided to poof out of existence and leave behind their unfinished bottles of beer and bowls of peanuts. Sitting down for a small breather didn’t sound like a bad idea and either way there was no one in here which in turn meant there was nothing to really worry about except catching the idiot in the beret that had decided to play hide and seek. He was cutting a couple of lines over the counter when a deep voice called behind him.   
  
“What the hell do you think you are doing?” it said and Christian was forced to look back, startled. It was a man older than him for at least twenty years, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back tightly and his tie a little loose around the neck. Not someone he would look twice at normally, with his plain black suit and serious face… but this man was obviously wearing a shoulder holster and packing, and oh yeah, he had grey skin. Completely monochrome straight out of an old movie.   
  
An alternative painting the inside of Christian’s mind, three possible explanations to the whole thing. He was either really high and someone had changed his coke for angel dust, he had a bad concussion, or he was dead. Christian furrowed his brow back at the man. None of these answers were ideal.  
  
“…well, shit.”


End file.
